


the mourning

by KleoHoney



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 18+, Breaking and Entering, Dark fic, F/M, Manipulation, Murder, Obsession, Police corruption, Stalking, Tags to be added, couples therapy, future non-con, grief councillor, mentions of domestic violence, possessive!Steve, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:16:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28479780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KleoHoney/pseuds/KleoHoney
Summary: You're a grief councillor, and your latest client is Steve Rogers, who recently lost his wife. After a few sessions, you begin to suspect that there was more to her passing than meets the eye.
Relationships: Dark!Steve Rogers/Reader, Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 58
Kudos: 214





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Be sure to read through all the tags before proceeding! After this initial chapter, there will be more warnings added and the new ones will be at the beginning of the fic. You are responsible for your own media consumption. If you think I've missed a tag, please let me know.

The strong smell of antiseptic and bleach was nauseating. Breathing heavily through your mouth, you pressed your fingers to your temples and tried to look as if you were paying attention. The beginnings of a migraine was chipping away already.

Sweet Dorothy babbled on, blind to your internal struggle. It was only pity that stopped you from sending her away; her husband had passed some months ago and left her a considerable fortune. She spent three hours a week with you, though it was hardly spent talking about her late husband. 

Dorothy preferred to talk about the mundane, the stuff she’d been up to throughout the week. She was in her late sixties and obviously lonely, but the one time you’d dared to suggest that to her, she’d gone up in tears and refused to talk about it. 

Then again, if she wanted to waste her money, then that wasn’t really your business.

Greying hair curled around her face as she went on about a dog she saw in the park. It was the little things, for her. You almost admired her for it. Distraction wasn’t a healthy coping mechanism but she made it look like it was.

“Dorothy,” you gently interrupted, closing your blank notebook. “I’d love to hear more about that. Perhaps next week? We have a two hour session scheduled, I think.”

“We do,” Dorothy nodded, cheeks wobbling with the movement. “I shall bring us a little treat.”

“Oh, Dorothy -“

“Nonsense,” she waved your protests off, “you deserve it. You’ve been so helpful, dear.”

You arched a brow. It didn’t feel like it. Each session it became glaringly obvious that she didn’t see these as therapy sessions; she saw them as a chat with a friend. And, whilst that was sweet, it certainly wasn’t helpful.

You helped Dorothy to her feet, watching as she wobbled away, making polite conversation with other staff as she went. You shut the door and leaned against it, pressing your forehead into the cool surface. 

Soon you’d take time off. You needed it. Helping people cope with losing a loved one was your passion, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t tiresome. And lately it had been exhausting.

There was a knock on the door. Out of habit, you glanced at your watch. Right on time, as usual. Grumbling to yourself, you reached for the handle and pulled the door, sweeping the frown off your face and replacing it with a wide grin.

“Mr.Rogers,” you greeted, “please, come in.”

“Steve,” he corrected, as he always did. “Please, just Steve.”

You went back to your chair, getting comfortable before opening your notebook on a new page. If you were lucky, you’d actually be able to get some work done this session.

Steve sat down opposite you, sinking down ridiculously low in the piles of cushions. It wasn’t often you had a man that large sitting on your sofa, and it creaked in protest. Steve blushed a little, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck.

“So,” you smiled, clicking your pen. “Is there anything in particular you want to discuss?”

“Um,” his eyes drifted upward, as if he was trying to remember something. “Nothing comes to mind. How have you been?”

“Good,” you said, eager to get back to Steve and his life instead of yours. “Any more nightmares, visions, anything like that?”  
Steve frowned a little, but you hardly noticed. He began talking about some of his latest dreams and you jotted them all down, trying not to cringe at the violent nature of some of them. 

Steve Rogers was a strange one. He was young, first of all. The youngest client you’d ever had. There was also a reluctance to talk about what he was going through, but that wasn’t entirely uncommon. He liked to turn the spotlight on you a little, ask you about your life, but you had come to learn that the way to distract him was to talk about his dreams.

Then, there was the way in which his wife had died. Murder. 

Steve trailed off. “Are you alright?”

“Hmm?” You tapped the pen against your bottom lip, leaving smears of ink in its wake. “Oh, yes. Please, continue.”

Steve did, but he seemed to watch you a little more closely this time. You could hardly blame him; he paid for your time and attention. It would be unfair if you didn’t give it to him.

No matter how hard you tried to listen, your mind couldn’t help but drift. Specifically to the crime scene photos. So much blood, piles of something that you didn’t want to identify. Torn clothes, nail indents on the floor. 

Your supervisor had recommended that you take a look at them before you took Steve on. Stupidly, you agreed to being his therapist before looking at the pictures. All of that had been just over a month ago.

“I tried the tea,” Steve said, “the exercise, the meditation. Dating, even. None of it seems to work.”

You couldn’t help but agree. Those kind of techniques weren’t meant for people who’s loved ones had been torn from them in the most traumatic way. It was becoming more obvious that you were ill equipped to handle Steve and his story.

You scribbled down a number and an address in your notebook, tearing out the page to slid it across the coffee table for Steve. “Here. I want you to have this.  
Steve picked it up, the paper looking ridiculous in his giant hands. “I don’t understand. What is this?”

“It’s the name of another office,” your explained, “just a few miles from here. I’m sorry to say, Steve, but I don’t think I’m going to be able to help you.”

In that moment, it was hard to say what changed. The set of his brows, the way his lips seemed to peel back from his teeth, or the way his face suddenly blanched. The paper shook in his hands and you squirmed, uncomfortable with the intensity of his gaze but the lack of emotion on his face.

“No,” he finally said, huffing a laugh. “No, I think you misunderstood. I - those things don’t help me, but the talking does.”

“Yes,” you agreed, though you weren’t entirely sure. “There’s a woman named Susan who works there, she would be more than happy to -“

“Talking with you,” he amended. “You make it better. I - I don’t think I could trust this with anyone else.”

You put your pen down, suddenly flooded with sympathy. It could be hard sometimes, opening yourself up to one therapist and then going to another. Eventually the number of people your soul had been bared to began to wrack up, and that could be uncomfortable for some. Steve seemed to be a part of that category.  
“Alright,” you said. “One more session. Next week, okay? Two hours. If you have more than three nightmares this week, I’d like you to try Susan.”

Steve averted his gaze, nodded slowly. He wanted to argue, that much was obvious. But, to his credit, he didn’t. 

For the rest of the session, you went in depth about what his nightmares might mean and even gave advice on what food to avoid before bed to reduce the risk of vivid dreams. Steve borrowed a slip of paper from your book and a pen, wrote it all down and, overall, seemed very engaged.

It really was a shame about his wife. A man like Steve didn’t deserve something so terrible as that. 

⚰️

Examining the back of a bag of salad, you tried to piece together a meal. You had yet to balance work and personal life, which often meant you were left fumbling for meal options at least twice a week. Maybe three or four times if it was a busy one.

You had the beginnings of a lasagne and fajitas in your cart. Satisfied with the ingredients, you tossed that bag of salad in and moved on to the next isle, grabbing a few bits as you went.

It was difficult living on the other side of town, especially with the hours you worked. At least a peaceful night’s sleep was always guaranteed; you lived in a row of houses with a bunch of nursing students, doctors and factory workers. Almost all of them worked nights.

A flash of blond hair caught your eye and you looked up, half expecting to see Steve Rogers at the end of the isle. A crease formed between your brows at the empty space; no-one was there. 

Well, you’d spent nearly three hours with the man today. It was only natural that he’d be on your mind. You wouldn’t be a good therapist if he wasn’t.

The crime scene photos flashed again in your mind. Sometimes you wished you didn’t have to think about him, because thinking about Steve always lead to thinking about his wife and that always lead to - yeah. 

You pursed your lips, steering your cart toward the checkout station. If you continued to think about those photos, maybe it would be best if you saw a therapist. It wasn’t uncommon, therapists seeing therapists. It was often necessary.

You unloaded your items onto the conveyer belt and stood idly as the boy at the end bagged them. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered and you almost yelped. 

“Sorry,” you laughed a little, feeling embarrassed. “Just a little jumpy today, I guess.”

“Don’t blame you,” the cashier shook his head, glancing out the window and toward the greying skies. “Pressure’s been building; there’s a storm coming. In more ways that one, I think.”

You swallowed and tried not to look shaken. The boy was smirking, shoving armfuls of your shopping into bags. The cashier must say that kind of thing all the time.

You got out your purse to pay but the man shook his head again. “Don’t you worry about that, ma’am,” he jerked his head toward the window. “Some guy’s already paid for you. Said it was a ransom act of kindness, something like that.”

You blinked, surprised, instead pushing some of the money into the boy’s hand. After a long day, that was just what you needed. Suddenly you felt emotional. Touched. You grabbed all the bags before either of them could see the tears blooming in your eyes.

Glancing toward the window, you tutted. A clap of thunder made you wince. The cashier had been right about one thing, at least.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No additional warnings for this chapter, but feedback is appreciated!

A week later, and you were back in the office with Steve Rogers. You drummed your pen against your leg, listening to him talk about his week and everything that he’d done.

Then sun filtered through the blurred windows but, despite the heat, you just couldn’t seem to get warm. You cupped your elbow in one hand, trying not to shiver. Later, you’d have to make a call to maintenance and get them to check it out.

“No nightmares,” he announced, looking sheepish. “Well, one. But that’s good, right? That’s a lot less than usual.”

Steve usually had a nightmare every night. Once, a few weeks ago, he’d even called you on your work phone in the early hours of the morning, howling and choking on his own tears. It had shaken you and you’d ended up called paramedics to his house. 

That was why you’d contacted Susan. Not only had she got years more experience than you, but she would be able to put firmer boundaries down. For example, don’t call my house at three in the morning. 

It had been terrifying, hearing him like that, comparing him to the resolute man who seemed utterly in control. You had been afraid.

“That is good,” you nodded. “What do you think helped?”

He fumbled for a minute, eyes darting round. “The - uh - meditation sounds. On YouTube. I’ve forgotten what they’re called, but they’re pretty good.”

You let out a subtle relieved sigh. For a moment there, you’d thought he was lying. God knows why; Steve needed help and he knew it. He didn’t seem the type to get in the way of people helping him. 

“Anything else?” You asked. You’d been planning to make a proper list for him with more techniques and when it was best to use them. 

“Been working out harder,” he said casually. “Helps to sweat it out, you know?”

You jotted it down under the list of his techniques. Again, you wondered if he was fibbing. It was only last week that he’d said that it hadn’t worked.

Your eyes drifted to his biceps and the way they bulged, protesting about being crammed into such a small top. They snapped back to his face when he flexed, an usually calm expression on his face betraying the amusement in his eyes.

Another coping mechanism? It was a common one - distract yourself in a sexual way, whether that was by making others look at you in that way, excessive amounts of sex or excessive masturbation. 

“Can I ask what your recent nightmares were about?” You asked, successfully changing the subject.

“Same stuff,” he gave a halfhearted shrug. “Sharon. All the blood. All the meat.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest at the called way he described it, the way his hand tapped on his thigh, clearly bored with the conversation. You searched him, searched his body language for any clue of his true feelings. A crack in his demeanour.

You came up blank. Coughing to clear your throat, you asked, “What happens in your nightmares? Can you see yourself? See a figure, maybe?”

Again, he shrugged. “I don’t really remember. What do you dream about?”

You tried not to audibly sigh. Steve did this all the time, changing the subject and pivoting the focus on you. Sometimes it was innocently. Sometimes it wasn’t.

“I dream about helping my clients,” you eventually said. It wasn’t a lie; your clients often featured heavily in your dreams. That was what happened when you spent multiple hours with the same people every week. 

“You dream about me, then,” he smiled a little, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Eerily, he reminded you of a curious child, which was an uncomfortable imagine given how huge he was. “Since I’m your client.”

“Your dreams, Steve,” you repeated, growing tired of the game he was playing. “Who do you see?”

“Oh,” he dragged out the sound, slowly unfurling from his position, sitting up to his full height. “I don’t want to share that with you quite yet.”

You snapped your book shut. It was unbearably cold. Pulling your cardigan closer around your body, you stood up to fiddle with the thermostat. “Excuse me, Steve. It’s just getting a little bit chilly in here.”

“It’s these big buildings,” he commented, gesturing round. “They’re practically power vacuums. AC’s always playing up, water not running, stuff like that.”

You hummed your agreement, adjusting the thermostat a little higher. Hopefully it would warm the room in time for your next client.

“Bet it’s like that at your place too,” Steve continued, “since it’s one of the older buildings.”

Your fingers stilled. “What? How did you know that?”

“You told me once,” he said, looking at you strangely. “Can’t you remember?”

No, you couldn’t. You laughed a little, though it was high pitched and nervous. That didn’t mean - whatever it meant. You must have told him.

“Yeah,” you smiled, sitting back down. “Anyway, I would like you to try out these methods for me and let me know if any more work.”

He looked down at your list. “What if I’ve already found something that will help me?”

You grinned, feeling relieved and excited that it was going so well. “Then that’s great, Steve.”

⚰️

An hour after your last client of the day and you’re still in your office. John, the guy at the front desk, had been by on the coffee round earlier and it was the only thing keeping you sane.

You were discharging two clients today, giving one the all clear to return to work. Of course, they could also leave any time they liked, but it was more official if you were able to sign a note at the end of it and give them the all clear. A little more satisfying for both parties; a step in the right direction.

You frowned a little. As far as you knew, Steve had never stopped working. All the distractions he used were beginning to pile up, and you were struggling with getting him to see the reality of it. It was okay to use certain methods to ward of nightmares or clear your head, but they were meant to be a short term solution. Like stopping the nightmares with meditation until you clear your head and just don’t have them anymore.

A piercing alarm shook you from you reverie, sending your chair clattering backward as you stood up. Someone had entered the building without a passcode.

You scrambled for the door, pulling it open to meet the equally confused expressions of your coworkers. “Dawn? What’s going on?”

Dawn laughed a little, glaring up at the flashing red alarm above her door. “David’s probably forgotten his key card again. You know what he’s like.”

The alarm suddenly cut off, a startled looking man rounding the corner with a tool kit. You recognised him as the building’s maintenance guy. He’d been called earlier to take a look at the heating.

“You let David in?” Dawn asked.

“No,” he shook his head, pulling out his phone and typing rapidly on the key pad. “Someone broke out.”

“What?” You said, lips parting. It didn’t make sense. All entry points for clients had no locks or passcodes. Only staff entrances and exits had the alarms. The building was serious about security, and you even had to scan your card to get out. “Who?”

“No idea,” the guy said grimly, bringing his phone up to his ear. “But the fact they had to break out tells me they probably shouldn’t have been in. I’m calling the police - you should probably wait together.”

“You think they might come back?”

“Don’t know,” he said, lips thinning. “But I don’t think they expected the alarm to sound like that. They might panic, come back and make sure they didn’t leave anything behind.”

You didn’t need to hear anymore than that. Dawn scrambled into your office and shut the door, leaning against it for good measure. Your heart was stuttering in your chest, urged on by the paleness of Dawn’s face. You weren’t the only one who was scared.

A few minutes later, though it seemed like an eternity, and the police were there. They swept the building, asking everyone questions and going to view the security tapes. To no-one’s surprise, they were blacked out. 

“They were in the file room,” your supervisor said, nibbling on her lanyard. “God - why? There is nothing useful in there.”

“Maybe someone trying to discharge themselves?” You suggested, though it didn’t click. There were easier ways to do that than breaking in.

“I don’t know,” she rubbed her palms ver her face, looking suddenly tired, “but it’s a mess in there now. Papers are everywhere and we don’t know if anything is missing.”

You shared a look with Dawn. “We can tidy it up; it won’t take as long with both of us.”

“Are you sure?” She said, clasping her hands together. “You’re a star, both of you. An officer is staying over for a little while, just to make sure there are no more visitors. You’re okay with that?”

Actually, you were relieved. The building seemed suddenly unsafe now that you knew how easy it was to get in and get out. It would hardly be a surprise if they never caught who did it.

Your supervisor hadn’t lied; it was a shithole. Papers were everywhere, all the draws hanging open and some even hanging out. It was a miracle you hadn’t heard it happening.

“Here’s a list of where everything goes,” Dawn said, handing you a piece of paper. “I’ll start over here.”

You got to work, stacking paper and sliding them back in the right place. You ticked off each client as you found their details; that way it would be easier to spot what had been taken and maybe narrow down who had done it.

“It must be a client,” you finally said, sliding a draw shut. “Else they would have looked into the staff draws too. This person knew what they were looking for and where they would find it.”

“Stop, you’re scaring me,” Dawn protest weakly, pushing a handful of papers back in the B files.

You settled into the motion, scooping and stacking, scooping and stacking. Your hands were riddled with paper cuts and dry by the time you had even got half way through. Your fear was slowly floating away as you became more comfortable in the building. Of course, knowing an officer was outside helped.

A name suddenly jumped out at you and you slid the paper over to yourself. Sharon Carter. Your eyes widened - that was Steve’s wife. She’d had counselling?”

“Not with us,” Dawn said, spotting what you were looking at. “She was on the other side of the building. Couple’s counselling.”

“Huh,” you said beneath your breath. “Steve never told me that.”

You scanned her file, getting more and more confused as you went on. Steve had wanted a divorce, apparently, and she had wanted to stay together. Had made him go to counselling, though the notes were telling you that he hadn’t been very willing. It made sense. He was hard headed. 

Suddenly, a lot more was beginning to make sense. You’d been worried that he wasn’t grieving as he should have been; the only sign that something traumatic had happened was his nightmares, and he had hardly told you what they were about. 

But if he’d been wanting to split and she’d been denying it, then it was only natural that he might not feel as connected or upset about her murder. Cruel, but logical. You wondered if that’s why he’d never told you.

You put the file aside. It shouldn’t have even been in this room. Sharon Carter-Rogers was no longer a client, so her file needed to go into the main storage. 

Still, you filed those little tidbits away in your mind for your next session with Steve. It was time for him to be a little more honest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think! My Tumblr is **kleohoneyao3** and I also do stuff on there that I don't post here 🖤


	3. III

You didn’t go home. You couldn’t, not after what you’d discovered about Steve’s wife. Something about the situation was bugging you, and waiting until Steve’s next appointment wasn’t an option.

Tapping restlessly against the wheel of your car, you finally came to a decision. You pulled out of the car park and headed straight over to the station before you could think better of it. If you thought too hard, you’d chicken out. 

The sky was dark, giving the feeling of being crowded in. Watched. Maybe part of it came from living in a relatively small area. Something felt ominous.

You brushed it off as the aftermath of the break-in (or out) earlier and pulled into the carpark of the police station. It was the biggest building in the entire town; something about being in a small town drove people to commit crime, apparently. Whether it was out of boredom or something else, you couldn’t say.

The fluorescent lights lit up the way as you hopped up the steps and let yourself in. A disgruntled looking officer glanced up as you walked in.

You fished out your lanyard from around your neck, showing it to the man. “Hi, I work over in the Grief department,” you told him. “I was wondering if I could have access to some files that involves one of my current clients?”

“I suppose you could,” he said slowly, leaning over the desk slightly. His cologne hit you and you almost stepped back. Something about him was familiar. “Which ones?”

“Um,” you cleared your throat, reminding yourself that you had every right to be there. “Sharon Carter-Rogers. Please.”

The officer stilled, blue eyes sharpening with something like warning. “You sure that’s a good idea? Shit - I’ve never seen anything like that before. You sure a little lady like you can handle it?”

You stiffened, fingers tightening on your lanyard. “I’ve seen them before. Now, I’d like to see them again.”

He tutted, but called over another officer and told him to watch the front desk. You followed as he lead you through a set of double doors, scanning some kind of pass, and then down two sets of stairs. 

The chill sank into your bones. Going this far down - it didn’t feel unlike one giant grave. 

The man kept glancing over at you, something like a smirk pursing his lips. You curled your lip, meeting his stare head on. Something about him made you uncomfortable.

Eventually, he stopped in front of another set of doors, scanned another pass and then went in. The lights flickered on, motion-detection ones. 

The room was dusty, the air thick and stale. It didn’t take a genius to figure out this was the room for cold cases. You were surprised to see so many of them.

The officer jammed his thumb into a keypad, pausing when he noticed you looking. “Need to put the code in, else an alarm’ll go off in two minutes.”

“We need something like that,” you said absently, tugging at your lanyard.

“Hm?” He said, looking over at you. “At the centre?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, eyes roving over the copious boxes. “Someone broke in today. Cameras are all blank.”

He whistled lowly. “That been reported?”  
You shrugged. “I’m assuming so.”

“I’ll check,” he offered, standing so close that his cologne stung your nostrils. “Now, lemme see. Sharon Carter-Rogers.”

He lifted a box from the shelf, fishing inside until he came out with a file. You frowned, displeased by how thin it was. 

“I know,” he shrugged, dusting it off before handing it over. “It’s a weird one. No new leads since the night it happened.”

“You think someone might’ve been tampering?” You asked, flicking through the near-empty file.

“Now, little lady,” he purred. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Alright,” you said, uncomfortable with how close he was standing and the way he was looking at you. “Well, I only need a few minutes.”

“I’ll be right outside,” he said, then he opened the door and disappeared.

After a minute of flicking through the file, you were feeling stupid. What had you been expecting? New evidence? There was nothing here that the police hadn’t seen a thousand times over. 

You shut your eyes tight, washing away the poignant images of the crime scene. Never had you seen such, destruction, such blatant disregard for human life. Early in the investigation, officials had even suspected an animal. But it was too cold for that, too calculated.

Steve had been out the night with a friend and had returned in the early hours to find his wife torn to shreds. You swallowed hard, trying not to gag. You couldn’t imagine how it would feel to discover - to live through something like that.

You sighed, tapping at the plastic of the folder. Everything in you was telling you to send Steve to a specialist, someone who could actually help him. You felt as if you weren’t qualified enough for this.

Your eyes fell on the box, the one the officer had pulled Sharon’s file from. You glanced at the door, the little slit in the wood showing an empty corridor. If you were going to do this, you would do it now.

Disgust coiled in your gut as you lifted the lid. There wasn’t much - just more paper and some smaller things, like a press on nail and a hair brush with small splatters of blood on. All the other things - the hair, the bloodied clothes - had been moved else where. It was a miracle the entire country didn’t know about Sharon.

You picked up the paper, eyes focusing on the blurry writing. It took you a moment to work out the words, and once you had, your stomach plummeted. 

Instantly, you stuffed the papers back into the box and laid the file on top. You’d just turned around when the door opened and the officer appeared, squinting at you. “You get what you needed?”

“Yes,” you squeaked. “Well, no. I don’t know what I was expecting, really.”

You slid by the officer, standing by as you watched him lock up the room. He finished and turned to you. “I admire you, you know.”

You blinked. “You do?”

“Sure,” he said, ushering you back toward the direction of the stairs. “Your devotion to your clients; it’s really something.”  
“I try my best,” you admitted, uncomfortable with the attention. “Still, I feel like I could do. . .more. That I’m not doing enough.”

“Oh?”

“Some cases. . .I don’t think I’m the right person for the job,” you said, though it was mostly to yourself. “So it’s my responsibility to point them in the right direction. It’s the least I can do.”

The pair of you stood awkwardly in the entrance for a moment, both lost in your own heads. “Well,” he finally said. “I’ll see you around.”

“I will do,” you said, then you paused. You didn’t even know his name.

“Officer Barnes,” he supplied, taking his position behind the desk. “It was nice to meet you, Y/N.”

Your mind was racing as you hastily left the building, scurrying to your car as if Hell was hot on your heels. You checked the backseat and jumped in, switching the lights on and locking the doors.

Officer Barnes. That was James Barnes, or Bucky Barnes. The one who Steve had been with on the night of Sharon’s murder.

You ribbed your hands over your face, mulling it all over. Steve hadn’t mentioned Bucky was a police officer, or that he’d been part of the case. What about conflict of interest? Bucky shouldn’t have been allowed on the case.

You shuddered hard, the feeling of flimsy paper beneath your finger tips coming back. Steve also hadn’t told you about the multiple calls made to the station by his neighbours. Shouting, at all hours of the day and well into the night. It had been going on for at least a month, right up until the night of the murder. Then, of course, it stopped.

It wasn’t necessary for a client to pour out their entire souls in the confines of your room. It wasn’t, and you never expected it. But this? This was vital information, things that you should have been told. Especially about the calls.

You fumbled with the buttons on the dashboard, waiting until a blast of hot air hit your face to turn the car on. You drove home quickly, mind in messy loops, everything you’d learned refusing to leave until you chased the thoughts away with a bottle of red wine.

⚰️

Steve Rogers was in your office again, and to say you were a little tense would be the understatement of the year.

“-station?”

You snapped back to attention, freeing with the tip of your pen balanced on your lip. “Huh?” You said, flushing at your clumsy speech.

“I said,” he repeated slowly, leaning forward until his elbows were resting on his knees, “why were you at the police station the other night?”

There was a thick silence, broken only by the ticking of your clock. Your heart stuttered in your chest, threatening to give out. 

“How do you know that?” You finally managed.

“Am I not supposed to?” He said innocently, blinking those baby blues at you as if you were the strange one.

“Well, no,” you stammered, eyes flicking down to your notebook and straying to the number in the margins. “I - I took another look at the case.”

“Sharon’s case,” he said. His lip twitched in something like distaste, and suspicion rose in your gut before you could push it down.

“Look, Steve,” you sighed, trying to look troubled instead of scared. “Let’s be adults here. I am not suited to your case in the way I want to be. I want you to take this number and have a chat with Susan. I’ve already called her and asked, she has space - “

“No,” Steve breathed, crumping the paper in his hands. “No, no, no.”

You flinched when he suddenly bashed his closed fists against his temples, your mouth popping open as tears sprang to his eyes. Your hand began to reach for the walkie talkie on your desk. “Steve, I -“

“You’re trying to get rid of me,” he hissed, standing up to his full height. “You - you don’t want me here.”

“Steve,” you said, trying to smooth the shake in your voice. “I want to help you. That’s what I’m meant to do, to help -“

“To help me?” He repeated, looking suddenly dazed. He swayed on his feet, looking pale in the fluorescent light of your office. “That’s all I am to you?”

“Steve,” you said, “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to call security.”

He swore viciously, shooting you a look that was almost soft, considering what had just happened. He paused by the door and your hand tightened on the walkie-talkie, but then he opened it and left. Just like that.

⚰️

After that, you’d cancelled your last appointment for the afternoon and gone home. Your supervisor had insisted, even when you’d protested. It had been obvious how much Steve had scared you.

You imagined him with that same face, standing over Sharon. A sob caught in your throat and you drowned it with another heavy glup of wine. It was coming together, now, even though you desperately wished it wasn’t. 

You’d had the police on speed dial ever since you’d got home. There was no easy way to make the call, and you still weren’t sure it was possible. ‘Hello, yes, I think Steve Rogers killed his wife. No, I have no real evidence. Yes, I know you probably already explored that avenue a hundred times. No, I don’t know why.’.

Hell, you could probably lose your job for false claims like that. You took another swig from your glass and tried to relax. It wasn’t possible. Your muscles were so tense that they were actually hurting.

Your head tilted, a sudden commotion outside your door grabbing your attention. You frowned a little; none of your neighbours were due back from work for another seven or eight hours. 

You got to your feet and padded over to the door, peeking through the peephole. Dimly, you registered the sound of your glass slipping from your hand and smashing on the floor.

Because Steve Rogers was at your door.

“I know you’re there,” he said, pressing his forehead to the wood. For the first time, you realised how thin it was. “I can feel it. We need to talk, honey, let me in.”

You didn’t answer. And then you were screaming, running for the phone, because Steve began to rain down a series of blows that felt as if they were shaking your entire apartment.

And you were right. The door was really, really fucking flimsy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _let me know what you think!_


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> noncon in this chapter!

Carefully, you shook the tea bag to drain the last drops. You didn’t have to do too much; your hand was already shaking with enough force that the tea bag threatened to drop from the spoon.

The mug was red hot against your palms but you barely felt it. You cradled it against your chest, letting it warm your chest, as you turned. Pressing your hips against the counter, you tried not to appear too much like the frightened animal you were.

Steve tilted his head, watching you even as he emptied the last of the remains of your glass into the bin. “You need to be more careful. You could’ve been hurt.”

You could hardly breathe. This was something you hadn’t seen coming, even when you began to suspect the truth. The depths of his depravity, insanity, and that it would drive him to break into your apartment and stand in front of you like nothing was wrong. Like you were friends.

Like you were more.

“Why are you here?” You murmured, hands clutching the mug hard enough to turn your fingertips white.

Steve sighed, and began to advance on you until you whimpered. He stopped, looking confused. As if you were the strange one. 

“You’re an intelligent woman,” he said bluntly. “I’ve always known that, even before we first spoke. I know you know - or, at least, you think you do.”

You couldn’t help it - the lie jumped easily to your lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What I do know is that you’re in my apartment - and you shouldn’t be. I’d like you to leave.”

Again, the head tilt. He looked at you as if you were something - something cute. “You know I can’t do that.”

Terror gripped you, threatened to choke the life out of you. “Why are you here, Steve?” You asked again. Anything to give you extra time, a chance to think.

“C’mon,” he jerked his head in the direction of your sitting room. “I want you to come sit with me. Did you make the tea like I asked you?”

“Yes,” you whispered. Maybe you could chuck it at him.

“Good girl,” he nodded, waiting until you’d passed to follow you in. “I want you to be calm for this - to understand me like I know you will.”

You bit down hard on your lip, looking in the direction of the front door. After Steve had ripped the door down and taken your phone, he’d shoved your dresser in front of it. Partly to keep it shut and partly because you’d need more than thirty seconds to move it. Thirty seconds that you didn’t have.

You sat, though you were hardly calm. Your entire body was tensed, muscles you weren’t even aware of clenched tight. Your spine was rigid. You couldn’t have drank the tea if you tried.

Steve sat next to you, moving until his thigh dusted yours. They were spread wide as if - as if he belonged there. You were more than afraid; you were angry. And you wanted answers.

“Bucky told me everything,” he casually said, reaching over to tug on a strand of your hair. “He knows you got into the box - saw those complaints.”

“What happened?” You asked, not daring to look up at him.

“It’s simple,” Steve shrugged. “I wanted a divorce. Sharon didn’t. We argued.”

“I saw her files,” you said, “from when she - you were in couple counselling. She said you’d always been a happy couple and you’d been willing to try counselling.”

The air was thick with tension, and you knew Steve was only having this conversation to humour you. He wanted something else, was here for another reason. 

“I was,” Steve agreed. “I wanted a divorce but I had loved Sharon. Marriage is what I’d always wanted. When it started to go downhill, I realised that I didn’t want that. Not if it was with the wrong person.”

“And Sharon was the wrong person.”

“She wasn’t always,” Steve continued. “That’s why I agreed to that initial session. Like I said; I had loved her. I agreed to try, even though I didn’t expect it to change anything.”

The tea was lukewarm now, but you forced yourself to take a sip. It was thick, utterly unenjoyable, but you needed a moment. No matter how brief. 

“What happened?” You asked.

“I saw you,” he murmured. You jolted at the feeling of his finger brushing across your cheek and he sighed, pulling away. “I don’t know why you were on that side of the building. I’ve thought about it a lot and - it has to be fate.”

He continued, “It was meant to be our first session, but I couldn’t concentrate because in those few seconds that I’d seen you, I was already lost. Sharon was mad at me, said it was a waste of money if I was just gonna ignore the therapist. Still didn’t want a fucking divorce, though. We had another argument that night.”

Your blood was cold. You’d heard that phrase numerous times but had never understood it - not until now. The tips of your fingers were freezing, though your head was hot. Almost like a hot flush.

“So, I kept attending the sessions,” he said, watching you out of the corner of his eye, trying to judge your expressions. “I never saw you. I was mad. You were almost like a reward for attending them at all, you know? But I didn’t know anything about you. That’s why I had Bucky look into it.”

Fucking Bucky. You briefly closed your eyes. You should have known, should have asked a different officer. Anything that would’ve prevented the situation you were now in.

You peeked at Steve, who was watching you intently. Then swallowed hard, because it was obvious that, no matter what route you’d have taken, it would have lead you here.

Maybe it was fate. But it was twisted, mutated beyond belief. 

“He told me you were a grief councillor,” he murmured. “And what could I do to get a session with you? I wasn’t - I wasn’t going to hurt her. It wasn’t planned. The thought occurred to me, when I first found out what you did, but I wasn’t going to do anything. I wasn’t. Because - I’m a good man.”

It didn’t matter. Not really. Because even if he hadn’t planned it, even if he wasn’t originally going to do anything, he had. 

“There was another argument,” he whispered, and you felt his breath puff across your cheek. “Bucky was there. I was insisting on divorce, I didn’t care what she said anymore. I wanted you. I want you. I hardly know what happened. Bucky said that she came at me first, went to hit me, and I defended myself.”

“Defended yourself?” You hissed, standing up. Tea sloshed from the mug and dribbled down your fingers. “I’ve seen those pictures, Steve. You did a hell of a lot more than defend yourself.”  
“I had to,” he insisted, eyes shining with tears. “It was the only way. I was trapped and, for the first time, I had something I wanted. Something that made me determined. I felt like myself for the first time in years because of you.”

Guilt slammed into you like a physical thing. Your years of training told you that it wasn’t true - regardless of why, it was Steve’s choices that caused this. Steve. Not you, because you were his therapist and nothing more.

You were his therapist.

“Right,” you said, lowering your mug to the coffee table. You tried to ignore how hard your hands were shaking. “I want to make some notes. Do you mind?”

“What?”

“My notebook,” you explained, “it’s in my room.” And so was the landline.

You didn’t wait for an answer. You turned on your heel and headed straight for your room, bare feet padding on the floor. The door creaked as you pushed it open and then shut, leaning against it for a brief moment before pushing off and diving for the phone.

And you were so close. So, so close. 

“The police?” Steve cried, his body taking up the entire door frame. “You’re calling the police? On me?”

“I have to,” you shot back, fingers shaking so hard that you pressed the wrong button. “You broke into my house, you- you’re a murderer.”

“No, no,” his voice hitched, reminding you of that last appointment. He grabbed a fistful of his hair, tugging hard. “I - I’m still Steve. I’m still your client, what about confidentiality?”

“You’re a murderer!” You shrieked, finally getting the correct three numbers and pressing call.

Your relief was short lived. Steve snatched the phone from your hand and dashed it into pieces against the wall. Your heard plummeted.

“Here,” he almost wailed, his hands diving into his pockets. “I can pay you - for your time. Like a session.”

Steve revealed fist-fulls of cash and shoved them at you, raining the money on you as if you’d actually take it. He kept doing it, grabbing and and pushing it back onto you, even as you cried out and slapped his hands away. 

“I want this to be between us,” he breathed heavily, lunging forward and trapping your wrists under his hands. “Just us, okay? That’s all I want.”

But you felt the hard line of his cock against your thigh and knew that it wasn’t.

“Get off of me,” you cried, bucking wildly beneath him. All it did was wedge you tighter beneath him, made him cage your body with his until his breath was ghosting across your lips.

He tried to kiss you and you dodged. You spat at him when he pulled away and he groaned, wiping off the spit with his thumb before bringing it to his mouth.

“I know you’re mad at me,” he breathed, “but I’ll take anything I can get. I’m fucking starving for it.”

He manoeuvred the pair of you until his hips were firmly wedged between your thighs, preventing them from closing. You tried to squirm away up the bed but only succeed in creating a friction that had heat bubbling in your core.

You opened your mouth to scream but Steve swallowed it with a deep kiss while working his hands beneath your shirt and onto your breasts. His fingers dusted the sensitive undersides and you shivered, biting down hard on his bottom lip.

Steve groaned, pressing his cock against your pussy harder. You though he might break, might do to you what he did to Sharon, and that was the only thing that made you still. Fear flowed through you but it was tainted with arousal, made you feel filthy.

Steve was a good looking man, his cock was nudging insistently at your core, and it was hard not to react. Impossible, even.

“I won’t take you here,” he said, the head of his cock nudging against your covered clit. “Not until you’re begging me. This will be enough for now.”

His hips rutted against you hard enough for the headboard to bang against the wall, his thumb doing something to your nipple that made you bite back a moan. You pulled his hair and it only made him fuck against you harder, his head dipping down so he could suction his mouth over the fabric covering your nipple.

Humiliation made you light headed as you felt your panties dampen. Even as your hands scratched at his forearm and pushed against his chest, your hips were lifting and rocking in motion with his.

“That’s it, honey,” he praised, licking a stripe up the side of your face and ending it with a kiss at your temple. “Knew you’d be sweet for me. Been imaginin’ it for so long - can’t believe you’re gonna cum for me.”

And you did. Your hips stuttered, going limp beneath him, but his cock was pressing against your clit hard enough for you to gasp. Your body trembled as your orgasm swept out from your pussy, curling your toes and parting your lips.

Steve pressed hard against you, grinding out his orgasm on the ends of your own, cooing every time you whimpered or shook against him.

“That’s it,” he purred, rocking languidly against you. “So gorgeous for me. Can feel your cunt, feel how wet and ready you are for me.”

You were blinking lazily, eyelashes dusting your cheeks, when Steve slotted his hand around your throat and started to choke you.

“I’m sorry, honey,” he pressed kisses to the side of your face, a harsh dichotomy to his hand around your throat. “Was gonna put something’ in your tea but you didn’t drink it. It’s gonna be okay, just go to sleep for me. You’ll wake up and feel so much better - wake up and be with me.”

As you hurtled into unconsciousness, all you knew was the feeling of Steve against you, and the truth of his words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please let me know what you think! and if you want to know what I'm doing next, come see me on Tumblr! **kleohoneyao3**

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year! Let me know what you think so far🖤


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